


Just to Make Sure

by addicted2hugh



Series: Just to Make Sure [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Canon Divergence - The Blind Banker, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Has A Secret, John Watson Has Overstayed His Welcome in Narnia, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Pining Idiots in Love, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-25 01:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17715155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: What if John hadn't given up dreaming so easily after Sherlock announced himself married to his work? What if he had admitted to himself that he's into him? And what if, when Sebastian Wilkes bullied Sherlock in front of him, he had stood up for his friend instead of letting him down?This is me trying to make up for John's inexcusable behaviour in TBB by bending the plot of the episode (and the whole show) in various ways.I hope you'll enjoy! <3





	Just to Make Sure

John Watson is not great with people. Never has been. He's too introverted for that, too grumpy, too easily annoyed. Sherlock never tires to remind him that he's also not above average when it comes to quick deductions or the elaborate interpretation of clues, but– fortunately– it doesn't really matter that he's a bit of an idiot, because standing next to Sherlock Holmes nearly _everybody_ looks like one. And the detective seems to want to keep _this_ particular idiot around – a feeling which is reciprocated by John, who, despite his usual desire to avoid too much close contact with his fellow human beings, finds himself quite intrigued by the mysterious personality of his newly acquired roommate.

When he got back from Afghanistan, John found himself caught up in conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he hated being alone. He hated it up to the point of depression, but whenever he left his dull little flat and tried to escape the loneliness by what Sherlock likes to call, with a disdainful eye-roll,  _socialising_ , it just resulted in him being so severely unnerved by people that he gave up again right away and went home to sit on his bed and stare into space and drink until the nightmares went away.

Occasional one-night stands were an exception, because things like that naturally require some flirting beforehand, but John can't – and, if asked, wouldn't – deny that the outcome was always much more important to him than the more or less fleeting connection he might, in the course of the conversation that preceded the deed, establish with the woman in question. All he usually wanted was some warmth and a deep, dreamless sleep, and a good orgasm or two tend to help with that.

He never slept with the same woman twice.

Living with Sherlock has turned his world around, even though it's all far from what any person in their right mind would call  _normal_ living arrangements. Sometimes not talking for hours, or even days, on end, Sherlock is the one who's responsible for most of the occasions on which they "give each other space", but John doesn't mind. He likes this kind of peace and quiet, because it never lasts too long. More often than not, he hasn't even started to get bored when Sherlock storms into whichever room he's occupying at the time (and that means  _any_  room at all, which took some time to get used to, since he usually prefers to keep at least  _some_  things to himself, especially when they involve bodily functions or, well, him relieving himself of baser urges of a certain kind) and tells him to wake up/put something on/get his gun/not forget to flush and join him on a chase through the maze of this wonderful city that, like Sherlock, never sleeps.

John isn't sure whether he's ever felt this alive before.

He's really,  _really_  not good with people. But he can read them, if given a few minutes to observe, and he knows that this, at least, is something of which he has the advantage over his genius friend. Sherlock can deduce people, tell you what they've eaten two days ago or whether they're cheating on their significant other with the girl who works at the flower shop, before they've even taken their first step into the living-room and sat down in the clients' chair, but John knows that he finds it difficult, sometimes close to impossible, to sense emotions like attraction or irritation. Over the short course of their acquaintance, it has already made for some hilarious encounters, and John often thinks to himself that it's maybe healthy for the younger man to be confronted with his limits once in a while, just to keep him from going completely insane with hubris.

But there are other times, too. Times when John feels sorry for Sherlock, when he watches him struggle with his inability to read a face or, even worse, when he sees him being oblivious to the derisive looks or remarks directed at him, and those are the moments when he feels his heart break for him.

This is one of them.

"This is my friend, John Watson."

" _Friend!?_ "

It sounds incredulous, mocking, and like a challenge. John, feeling his blood boil on behalf of the man Wilkes' taunting question is directed at, looks at Sherlock and sees his face fall for the fraction of a second before he manages to get himself under control again, and seeing this, this short expression of plain  _hurt_  on the now seemingly indifferent features, is what causes him to make up his mind. He's noticed the way Wilkes stared at him when he walked through the door and he has to admit to himself that he's flattered – it's been a while since someone ogled him like that, and it feels good. Well. It  _felt_  good for about half a minute, up until the moment he realised that the bloke is a massive git.

"And  _partner_ ," he states nonchalantly and sends Sherlock a brief crooked smile that he knows he won't be able to translate – but Wilkes will.

Wilkes looks him up and down slowly and raises his eyebrows appreciatively.

"Partner," he repeats with a sidelong glance at Sherlock. "O- _kay_."

Sherlock frowns.

John's heart is beating much too fast.

 _Fuck_.  _I'm enjoying this way too much, and for all the wrong reasons._

Even though he knows it's not real, he's proud to see Wilkes accepting the made-up scenario without hesitation. He believes John could pull someone like Sherlock, and even if he thinks Sherlock is incapable of what he perceives as "normal" human interaction, John is sure he wouldn't deny that he's stunning. Although John feels somewhat ashamed for reducing the man he's sworn to protect from all that could harm him right after their very first case to his handsome outer appearance (he's so,  _so_  much more than that), the idea of being associated with him like that exhilarates him.

He thinks of their first dinner together (Sherlock didn't eat, but it still counts) and feels heat creep into his cheeks.

_"Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."_

_Oh, it's_ fine _, isn't it, John?_

Trying to get off with Sherlock that night at Angelo's was one of his crazier ideas, born of adrenaline and red wine and Sherlock's annoyingly beautiful face gleaming in the candlelight, and looking back on the very final way Sherlock brushed him off he often finds himself a little embarrassed, but at the same time very grateful that he did. What they have now is so much more and so much better than any one-night stand could have ever been, even though John is sure that even a quick, alcohol-fuelled shag with Sherlock would probably have been amazing – and even though he doesn't really know what it  _is_  that they have or where it might lead.

By the time he'd shot the cabbie and Sherlock treated him to some Chinese takeaway, John had managed to get a hold of his hormones again. He knew that what he had stumbled into there was good, more than good, and he didn't care how many creepy brothers Sherlock had or how difficult it might turn out to live with someone who called himself a "high-functioning sociopath". Sherlock was unlike any other person he'd ever met before, and he wanted more of him. All that he could get. And so he went to bed in the upstairs bedroom that night, still high on the kill and the spicy food and  _Sherlock_ , and enjoyed a slow, intense, and extremely quiet wank to the image of kaleidoscope eyes and violinists' fingers (clichéd, but  _so_  true) and plump, rosy lips, trying to get it out of his system once and for all and failing spectacularly, because  _God_ , why be "married to your work" when you've got a body like that and ebony curls any hand would love to bury itself in and a voice that was practically made for sighing sweet filthy nothings into a lover's ear?

It's a shame, really, but John is okay with fantasising.

He's not what you'd call comfortable with that particular aspect of his own sexuality anyway, and it's always been a safer bet to just stick to women when trying to satisfy his bodily needs – it's much easier to not confront himself with an identity he's not yet sure how to deal with. The fact that he enjoyed the occasions on which he threw caution to the wind and went home with a man, enjoyed them  _immensely_ , to say the least, doesn't make it easier, but there you are. Sherlock has made it clear that he's out of bounds, and if, now and then, John allows himself to venture into the realm of imagination and indulge in that somehow forbidden fantasy to let off some steam, it's perfectly fine. It's not like he's going to act on it and ruin this, whatever it is.

"Well, grab a pew. Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?"

Wilkes smiles his toothpaste smile at them, and John snaps back to reality.

Sherlock only shakes his head.

\---

When they step back onto the street, John can't help himself. Wilkes calling Sherlock  _freak_ is still echoing in the back of his head, and he wants to punch him for it. And, what's more, he's sure there were  _others_  before and after him, other bullies who made fun of Sherlock, called him names, revelled in the knowledge that he didn't,  _couldn't_  possibly understand why, at least not at the beginning. They kept going until he himself believed that there's something wrong with him, that he  _is_  a freak, and that no one can bear his company for extended amounts of time. He told John so during their first cab ride together, and only now does John grasp the scope of it all.

"Taxi!" Sherlock calls.

John knows it might be unwise, but the opportunity is too good and the probability that Wilkes is looking down on them from up there in his fancy office is too high. He puts his hand on the small of Sherlock's back and steers him towards the cab, ignoring the look of confusion being directed at him in response.

\---

"Why are you trying to make Sebastian believe that we're involved?" Sherlock asks as soon as they get home.

John, his mind still spinning with all the various bits of information Sherlock managed to gather in the short time between their visit at Wilkes' office and now, gapes at him. He'd almost forgotten about his little charade – murder tends to drive most other, less violent thoughts right out of one's mind, it appears.

"I'm---" he starts, but trails off again, feeling silly.

His head is empty. He takes off his jacket to buy some time and watches Sherlock take off his gloves, coat, and scarf, revealing his black Armani suit and that ridiculously expensive purple shirt that's just the tiniest bit too tight (and most definitely too sexy for someone who keeps insisting that sex is "not really his area").

Why, indeed?

Sherlock purses his lips and narrows his eyes, and John feels like he's being x-rayed.

"You wanted him to think that I'm capable of making friends, even finding a lover," Sherlock answers his own question, his tone still neutral, but laced with a barely discernible trace of something dangerous. "You sensed his condescension before he verbalised it and wanted to pay him back for it."

 _Oh, he's_ good _._

John shrugs.  

"I reckon that's exactly what I was trying to do. It was just an impulse. I'm sorry."

Sherlock's face twists into a grimace of badly concealed fury. 

"Oh,  _are_  you? I don't need you to prove to Sebastian that I--- that I'm worthy of---"

Without finishing the sentence, he falls silent, glaring at John, who in turn feels anger rise up inside his guts. Anger at Sherlock, for misunderstanding his reasons, and at himself, for not anticipating that this might be exactly the thing Sherlock  _doesn't_  need on top of everything else.

"I'm  _really_  sorry, okay? I didn't think it through. I didn't mean to offend you!"

Sherlock snorts.

"Well done, then."

John takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. Maybe there's still time to fix this, to make up for it and make Sherlock see that hurting him is the last thing he'd ever want to do.

"Listen," he says carefully. "I noticed him looking at me, and when he started acting all superior I---" 

"He's not gay!" Sherlock interrupts him.

John huffs out a small laugh.

_You missed that one, Holmes._

"Oh, maybe not, but he  _is_  interested in men – believe me. He sized me up the moment I entered that office, and he liked what he saw."

Sherlock pulls himself up to his full height and, towering above John, folds his arms in front of his chest.

"Fine! But  _you're_  not gay!"

He sounds defiant, and John knows he's upset with himself for not noticing a thing that John, his trusty, but simple sidekick, picked up on immediately upon meeting Wilkes for the very first time.

"What does that have to do with it?" he asks, the embers of his frustration flaring up inside him again. "And I've shagged my share of blokes, just for the record. Don't assume you know everything about me."

_Oh God. Why did I say this?_

Sherlock misses a beat, but gets himself together again before his surprise at John's blunt way of announcing his sexual history can break his stride.

"So you thought, oh, alright, let's make him a bit jealous, didn't you?" he rants on. "And while we're at it, make him think Sherlock managed to get himself a  _boyfriend_  – the poor man needs his reputation polished a bit!"

His voice is shaking ever so slightly, and John despises himself for being the reason for that. This is not how it's supposed to be.

"Sherlock, I---" he starts, racking his brain for a way to apologise, but Sherlock doesn't let him finish.

"I don't  _care_  what he thinks about me, John! I don't need you to make me feel better about myself over a pretend relationship! It's humiliating!"

He somehow looks taken aback by his own words and by what he's just revealed about himself, and all John wants is to turn back time and never act on that ridiculous idea of his. He'd do anything to undo it all and start over again.

Even admit to his own insecurities.

"I'm--- I'm sorry if I hurt you, okay?" he tells Sherlock, his hands held up in an appeasing gesture. "It was stupid. I didn't think. I just hated him so much for assuming you didn't have friends, and I--- I mean--- It made  _me_  feel good about myself too, you know?"

Sherlock's mouth turns into a very,  _very_  thin line.

"How so? Because you saved me from dying a virgin in Sebastian's mind?" he asks scornfully, completely missing the point. "You're a real  _hero_."

John fights not to lose his composure, but isn't very successful.

"No! You're being  _so_  thick right now! Have you--- have you ever  _looked_  at yourself?" he asks, suppressing the urge to add a few choice expletives for good measure.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock seems to be genuinely oblivious to what John is trying to communicate, and John, aware that he'll have to  _say it_  or else, loses his temper with himself and the other man simultaneously.

"Use your super brain, why don't you?" he snaps.

Sherlock snarls at him.

" _Fuck_  you, John!" he spits.

John is flabbergasted at hearing him swear and knows it should probably tell him something, but finds himself talking in spite of himself.

"Oh,  _look!_  He's human after all!"

The moment it's out, he regrets it,  _oh_ , how he regrets it, but it's too late. Without another word, Sherlock turns around and walks into the kitchen, shutting the door behind himself.

John just stands there and watches him go.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks.  _Fuck, fuck, FUCK._

\---

John gives Sherlock twenty minutes to cool down, then deems it more or less safe to approach him again. He needs to make things right again – he can't lose the only person he's ever truly cared about since returning from the war, not over something like this. Not because  _he_  fucked it up.

He slowly opens the door and peers into the room. Sherlock is sitting at the table, stock-still, staring right ahead of himself. There's a steaming mug of tea in front of him, filling the air with the familiar, calming fragrance of Earl Grey. He doesn't react when John steps closer and finally sits down on the second chair.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John says. There's no use beating around the bush now. "Please. I'm really sorry."

Sherlock still doesn't turn his head.

"Yes. Fine."

His voice is cold and clipped. John prays that things are not broken beyond repair yet.

"I shouldn't have said that. I behaved like an arsehole."

A bitter smirk plays around Sherlock's lips, then vanishes again.

"You did."

John is mute for a minute, then tries again.

"Can we talk?" he asks softly. "Please?"

Moonlight eyes flicker towards his face, but don't quite make it.

"I don't feel like it."

Hiding his right hand, which is trembling and wants to ball into a fist so badly by now, under the table, John inhales a shaky breath.

"I know, and I deserve it. But please… Let me explain. Please, Sherlock. You can send me away afterwards, but I need to explain."

Silence.

Then, suddenly and without warning, Sherlock turns towards him and fixes him with a look that pierces right through him, ripping his heart apart and taking his breath away. He's hurt him; it's plain to see. And, even worse, Sherlock never expected him to.

"Go on then," Sherlock says, his tone remarkably steady. "Explain."

John nods, readying himself for the conversation he knows they need to have, no matter how much he'd like to avoid it.

_Just say it. You can't make it any worse, really._

"I'm embarrassed," he tries to say, but it comes out as a croak.

There's a huge lump in his throat, constricting his voice. He coughs to get rid of it.

Sherlock gazes at him intently, then reaches out and pushes his mug towards him, inviting him to take a sip. He doesn't say anything. John drinks, blinking at him over the rim of the mug in what he hopes will come across as a grateful manner. When he continues to speak, he sounds more like himself again.

"I'm embarrassed. That's why I lashed out at you. I know that's not an apology – but it's an explanation. I'm--- not comfortable discussing these things."

"Which things?" Sherlock asks.

_Here goes nothing._

"Being attracted to--- well,  _men_."

He somehow expects  _something_  to happen then – maybe Sherlock being surprised or amused or appalled, maybe himself dying of shame, or maybe the floor opening up and swallowing him whole, chair and identity crisis and all.

Nothing happens.

Then Sherlock shakes his head. He looks bewildered.

"Half an hour ago you proclaimed your sexual versatility without hesitation. Loudly, I might add," he says.

John almost laughs because his tone is so conversational – so  _normal_.

"I was very angry," he replies.

"So it was a lie?"

He  _could_  lie now and make it one, and would that maybe make it all good again? John isn't sure.

"No, it's true," he says. He's never discussed this topic with anyone before, and it feels… strange. Not bad, but not good either. "There were a few men at uni… and then later, in the army, there was… one."

 _One who was so similar to you_ , he realises, and then he wonders if that means that he's got a thing for blokes who never allow themselves feelings and what that in turn says about  _him_. It's, to put it mildly, unsettling, but Sherlock seems unperturbed.

"So you're bisexual. I fail to see the problem," he says.

John knows he should be relieved by his reaction – Sherlock is fundamentally underwhelmed by his news, and he really should find that refreshing. It's not that big a deal, is it?

"Well…" he says. Somehow it's indeed liberating to finally talk to someone about it all. "I've tried my best to avoid labelling myself – it would have made it all too real."

Sherlock fixes him with one of his most scrutinising stares and John just surrenders to the feeling of being turned inside out, taken apart, examined, and then put back together again. 

"Your father would have hated it," Sherlock then states and, who would have doubted it, hits the nail on the head with it.

John nods.

"If he'd known, he'd have beaten the life out of me. He would have been so disappointed. I was his good boy, his whole pride. It just--- I didn't dare tell him who I really was. I don't even know what I was more scared of – of losing his respect or of him letting his anger out on me. Maybe it was both."

Sherlock studies him for a while. Then he says, very gently: "I'm sorry, John."

He  _looks_  sorry, too, which makes John feel worse. He doesn't deserve this kind of sympathy, not after insulting him like that.

"You shouldn't be. He's dead now. I don't know why I still allow it to affect me like that. I'm an adult making his own decisions, and I'm responsible for them. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. Please forgive me for--- for implying you weren't human. It's just the same stupid shit Wilkes tried to do to you. I should be ashamed. I  _am_  ashamed. You're my friend. You're more important than a ghost from my past. Much--- _much_ more important."

Sherlock doesn't quite smile, but his expression has softened considerably.

"I know you didn't mean it. It's alright, John."

"Thank you." 

They are silent for a while. Sherlock drinks his tea, and John loses himself in the sight of his lips touching the mug, maybe in exactly the same spot where John's mouth touched it, too. Sherlock takes a sip, swallows, then repeats the process. John watches him, watches his Adam's apple bob, watches his long fingers flex as he raises the mug to his lips again and again. It's hypnotic; he's transfixed by it and only jerks out of his reverie when Sherlock puts the mug back down on the table with a low  _plonk_.

_Shit._

He's been staring. He's  _aroused_ , for God's sake. And this is Sherlock Holmes, the one and only, the amazing human deduction machine.

_Distract him. Change the topic!_

"Are you--- are you gay, Sherlock?"

 _Oh,_ good job _, John._

Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, though. He shrugs.

"Since we're talking about labels… yes. That's probably as close as it gets."

He might as well ask, then.

"Do you now understand what I was getting at earlier?"

"No."

_Impossible._

John can't believe that a genius like Sherlock could ever be so clueless when it comes to his own sex appeal, but he knows Sherlock isn't faking it. So he takes a leap of faith, annoyance and fear and amusement battling for dominance inside of him.

"Oh, you can't be  _serious_ \--- okay. You want me to spell it out for you? It felt  _great_  to have Wilkes think that a person like me could manage to catch himself a--- a person like you."

Sherlock's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. "System error" is written all over his face, and it's a bit sad, but also so endearing that John can't help but grin.

"There. It's out. You're hot, and I--- I adorned myself with borrowed plumes, so to speak. With  _your_  plumes."

Sherlock blinks a few times.

Then he says, in a slightly metallic voice: "I'm not---  _hot_." 

John laughs then, a real laugh, and it gets rid of most of his apprehension. They're  _talking_. And it's okay.

"Wrong. And you say that as if it was an insult."

Sherlock smiles shyly, but only for a second. Then the blank, slightly irritated look is back.

"Well, sorry," he apologises. "I know you meant it as a compliment. But… who would ever want to be with me like that, John? People  _hate_  me."

John's grin falters and angry pity fills his heart.

"You know, the worst thing about this is that you really believe what you're saying there. And people like that idiot Wilkes are responsible for that. If I could go back in time and find the person who started it all, who planted that thought in your head and then made it fester, I'd give them a good old talking to."  Sherlock frowns, but John raises his hand before he can say anything. "And yes, I know you don't need me to fight your battles for you. It was presumptuous of me to take that liberty. I see that now. And I apologise. I'm truly sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallows.

"It's okay," he says quietly.

John is tempted to touch him, then, to take his curly head in his hands and caress his brow and tell him how beautiful and brilliant he is, and he's scared it's showing on his face, so he takes a deep breath and decides to end this here, while he still can.

"How long will it take you to solve the case?" he asks.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"I'm not sure – why?"

"Well, we can't go back and tell him it was all a hoax. That would be--- embarrassing, wouldn't it?"

They look at each other, and John is surprised that Sherlock is mirroring his own sheepish expression. It wasn't his friend who started this, after all.

"I suppose it would be, yes."

"Well," John babbles to get it over with. "So we've got to stick to it until this is over, and then we'll never talk about it again. And I promise I'll keep my nose out of your business in the future."

Sherlock ponders over this for a moment, then inclines his head in agreement.

"Thank you."

John looks around the kitchen and sifts through his brain for something to say that isn't too mundane – after all, they've just shared most intimate moments with each other – and still ordinary enough to make the subtle, lingering tension of just having had A Talk disappear.

He's still sifting when Sherlock clears his throat with the smallest of hums and then speaks again.  

"John?"

John zones in on him, thankful for the prompt.

"Yes?"

Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, his eyes bright and alert and focussed on John's face. It's unnerving and wonderful, and John feels the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end.

"You said you wanted Sebastian to think that a person like you could catch himself a person like me."

So they aren't done with the topic yet.  _Great._

"Well… yes."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, still staring at him.

"I think you've been taken in by the misconception that, if you tried to find yourself a partner, you'd not be able to get any person you want. Any person at all."

"I'm not---" John tries to protest, but doesn't really know how to continue.

He's not what? Lovable? Handsome? Even  _looking_  for a "partner" right now?

Sherlock's lips do something weird then – if John had to guess, he'd say he's trying to smirk affectionately, but he can't be sure, because he doesn't know Sherlock all that well yet and so far has never seen him do anything even remotely like this. What does affection mean in Sherlock's world?

"You can't chide me for holding myself in low esteem and then do the same thing to yourself. That's absurd," Sherlock says.

He's got a point, but John is really,  _really_  not good at stuff like this. Being on the receiving end of a compliment throws him off balance, and that the compliment is coming from Sherlock, the coolest, most analytical person he's ever met, makes it all the more confusing.

"It's nice of you to say so," he mutters.

"You know I don't care for being nice. It's true," Sherlock replies and raises one expressive brow. "You're special, John."

_Special._

"I'm--- flattered."

This earns him a cocky snort.

"You should be. It's the greatest compliment I can give."

John is glad that they're almost back to normal by now.

"I know. People being idiots and all that," he says to lighten the mood even more.  

Sherlock attempts to answer, but then someone knocks on the door downstairs, and a few seconds later they can hear Mrs Hudson call out for them.

"Yoo-hoo! Boys! You've got a visitor!"

\--- 

Wilkes wants updates on the case, and John believes him when he says that he's scared it might be him next, but he also strongly suspects that he simply wants to know more about how they live and have a good look around his old fellow student's place.

He's not sure how to act to make the whole thing as bearable as possible for his friend, who never agreed to be a part of this farce, but it turns out he needn't have worried – Sherlock seems to have decided to go all out and have some fun while playing along. Maybe it's because they have no choice. Maybe he is enjoying Wilkes' appreciation of his choice of significant other a _little_ bit, after all. Either way, it's both terrifying and hilarious, and John tries to stay on his toes and keep up.

"I can't find my notebook… Can you check the inner pocket of my blue jacket, John? It's in the bedroom," Sherlock says, seated in his armchair and patting the pockets of his trousers and the Armani jacket as if looking for said notebook, which John knows doesn't even exist.

He bites back a laugh and nods.

"Sure," he says.   

When he turns and goes to Sherlock's bedroom, he feels Wilkes' eyes on his back. He imagines sharing this bedroom with his flatmate, imagines being allowed to enter it at will, knowing its scent and the way the sunlight shines through the curtains in the morning, and he imagines dragging Sherlock here by the collar, stumbling against walls and furniture as he leads him towards the bed to lay him down and---

_Stop it!_

_God, it_ does _smell good in here. Like Sherlock in his most concentrated form. Mmhhh._

He stands in the middle of the room and waits, telling his cock to calm down. 

After two minutes he leaves again and closes the door.

"Not there! Sorry," he calls and approaches the two men in the living-room again, coming to a halt behind the clients' chair.

Sherlock looks up at him. Wilkes cranes his head to do so, too.

"What about the bedside table?" Sherlock asks, his sly undertone tickling John's ear.

John knows he wants to tease him, see him flustered. He deserves it, too. But two can play that game.

_Just you wait._

"Nope. Sorry. I checked both our sides," he retorts smoothly and shrugs.

Sherlock looks like he's trying not to bite the armrest of his chair. John realises that he loves being responsible for him looking like that, even though the context could be less awkward.

"Oh well, I must have misplaced it," Sherlock says, his trademark mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Thank you, John."

John smiles and claps his hand together.

"Okay. Who wants some tea?"

\---

They're standing by the window, looking down at a rainy, wind-swept Baker Street. Dusk is approaching fast; the street lamps have already come on.

Wilkes has just left the flat.

John's heart is still stumbling over the fact that Sherlock – slowly and very much intentionally – brushed his fingers against his hand when he handed him a cup of tea, and he almost dropped his own at that, which would probably have resulted in some nice second-degree burns on his own feet and/or Sherlock's crotch. He caught himself in time and thinks he did a good job of pretending to be unfazed afterwards, but he can still feel the warmth of Sherlock's skin imprinted on his flesh.

Wilkes steps out of the front door and looks up. Without coordinating it, they both wave and smile (much more widely than the situation calls for), and he grins and waves back and then turns to leave.

"That went quite well," Sherlock says, fake smile fading from his lips.

John nods.

"Thanks for humouring me. I'm sorry you had to---"

His voice dies in his throat, because suddenly Sherlock reaches up and then trails his fingers from John's shoulder down to his elbow, caressing his arm, and then he closes the distance between them to stand right in front of him, so close that John has to tilt his head back to properly see his face.

"He's watching us from the corner. I think he assumes we're oblivious to that," Sherlock tells him, his fingers closing around his upper arm.

"Oh," John rasps. "Alright."

"You don't have to apologise again, John. I admit I couldn't help but enjoy it. I appear to be…  _very_  human in that respect."

John is glad to hear it and amazed at how lightly Sherlock is mocking himself and John at the same time by referring to their fight like that now, and he really  _loves_  being this close to him, so much that he's dizzy with it.

Without thinking, he raises his hand and tucks some tousled curls behind Sherlock's ear, using his thumb to trace the skin around the shell, so soft and velvety and hot, and Sherlock leans into the touch, maybe unconsciously, his lids fluttering, long lashes making shadows dance across his pale cheeks.

They stay like that for a few endless minutes, their bodies almost pressing against each other, but not quite. It's delicious torture to John. He knows it's just a game; he knows he should stop and get some distance between them  _right now_ , but he can't. 

"He's probably stopped looking by now," Sherlock eventually states in a low voice, making no move to let go of John.

"Probably," John replies.

His fingers keep playing with the hair behind Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's breath is caressing his cheeks. It's surprisingly pleasant.

When Sherlock turns his head to look out of the window and his jaw brushes John's palm in a warm whisper of skin against skin, a spark of  _something_ shoots right down John's middle. He follows his friend's gaze and stares down onto the empty street.

"He's left. He's not there."

Sherlock sounds adorably befuddled, stating the obvious like that.

John purses his lips and hums.

"No," he agrees. "He's not there."

A silent moment passes by. John's hand slides down the side of Sherlock's neck out of its own accord, coming to rest against the collar of his shirt.

That  _fucking_  purple shirt.

They look at each other as if on cue.

"Just to make absolutely sure," Sherlock breathes, and John wouldn't have thought it possible that two eyes could ever hold this myriad of emotions, of fears and questions and  _dreams_ , all at once, but there you are.

"Yes," he whispers back. "Just to make sure."

Sherlock hesitates for the fraction of a second, then slowly bends down towards him; he gets up on his toes simultaneously, and then, finally, they meet halfway, first their noses, then their mouths.

Sherlock's lips are the best, the sweetest ones John has ever tasted, and his soft, almost startled moan of pleasure and relief is the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

His knees shaking and somehow feeling as if this was his first kiss ever, John grips Sherlock's collar with both hands now, pulls him in, opens his mouth wider and deepens their connection, and then Sherlock's hands are there, cradling his face, long fingers carding through the hair at his temples, their gentleness in stark contrast to the urgency with which he's pushing his tongue into John's mouth to look for his.

 _God_ , John thinks drunkenly,  _we must look beautiful_.

Realising that he almost  _wants_  Wilkes to still be there, to see them do this, he laughs into the kiss, then nips at Sherlock's bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth and luxuriates in its taste, its plumpness, before letting it go again and gently pulling away to look at the man in front of him.

Sherlock is breathing heavily, and a gorgeous tinge of red is creeping across his cheeks.

"Why are you laughing?" he asks, his tone an interesting mixture of amusement and insecurity.

John smiles at him.

"This is about us, now," he answers, trying to keep his voice light and still show Sherlock that what he's telling him is more important to him than anything else. "No more proving things to others, or to ourselves. I'm glad we ran into that arsehole acquaintance of yours, I really am, because it set this whole thing in motion, but… it's not about that anymore. All I want to prove now is that---"

_That I'm honoured to be allowed to do this to you. That I'm so, so proud to be the one you look at like this. That I'll never stop protecting you._

_That I think I love you._

He can't say it. He's such an emotional cripple, and he hates himself for it.

Sherlock gazes at him, his eyes inscrutable.

"I'm not good at this, John, as you're well aware," he says. "I--- Experiences I made in the past taught me that I'm probably not suited for relationships of any kind."

John's stomach churns. If this is Sherlock's version of an  _It's not you, it's me_  speech, he doesn't want to hear it.

"However," Sherlock continues, and that small word alone takes some of John's anxiety away, "I've never met anybody like you, John. So there's no data with which I could compare this--- whatever this is."

John swallows his fear.

"I think it's called falling in love," he states, proud of the matter-of-fact way in which the words leave his mouth.

Sherlock's face takes on an expression he's never seen him wear before, and it's hard to describe what exactly it is. He feels that for a moment, he can see right into the other man's soul, into his deepest, most vulnerable core, and the impact of that is almost physical – it's so intense that it knocks the breath right out of him. He waits for Sherlock to speak again, biting back his impatience and despair because he wants to give him time to process this. His insides in a turmoil, he lowers his heels back to the floor and just looks up at the taller man, soaks up his body heat, his scent, scared that it's maybe all too much, too soon, and that Sherlock will bolt.

It takes Sherlock forever to answer.

"I don't think I've ever been in love before," he murmurs at last, sounding almost shy and thus completely and utterly unlike himself. "But from what I gather, that might be a very good explanation for what's going on inside of me whenever I look at you. I suppose I'd have to… experiment."

John's heart starts to pound.

"Good," he mutters back.

Sherlock nods.

"Very good," he whispers.

John shrugs and allows his hands to slip from Sherlock's front to his back, bringing his arms around his waist as he does so.

"You should definitely collect more data," he suggests lowly.

Sherlock's lips open and he wets them with the pink tip of his tongue. John can't help but stare.

"Yes," Sherlock sighs.

\---

They're in John's bed, naked, rolling around and snogging and touching each other all over, and John's memory of how they got here is sort of hazy, but he doesn't mind too much.

He remembers Sherlock collecting more data by kissing him until they both couldn't breathe and obviously finding his results sufficient to take it a step further; he remembers hands, four of them, tangled in hair, then clothes, tearing, stripping, looking for more more  _more_  bare skin, and he remembers a half-whispered, breathless conversation about STDs and bedside drawers containing (John's) and not containing lube (Sherlock's, and that will have to change) that should have felt significantly more awkward than it actually did.

Now they're together the way John's always imagined it, nothing in between, and Sherlock's scent is even stronger like this, with so much of his marble skin exposed. John wants to rub himself against him to mark himself his and is almost worried that he's already so invested in this - there's no way he'll let him go again, ever.

"John," Sherlock pants, and his name is the only endearment John needs, because no one has ever said it like this before. " _Mmhhhh!_  John…"

"Oh, yes, Sherlock---  _oh_. You're beautiful. _So_ beautiful…"

John is rambling, but he doesn't care. Sherlock  _is_  beautiful, but he doesn't know it, and that has to be remedied immediately.

When John runs his palm down his hip and then digs his fingers into his buttock to knead it, learn the feel of it, Sherlock inhales sharply and buries his face between John's neck and shoulder, his damp, stuttering breath hitting John's skin, and John shivers and bites his ear, groans into it and hears him mirror the sound with one of his own. Sherlock's cock is throbbing against his abdomen, rock-hard and silky, and he takes it into his hand to get to know it, too. A low whimper makes it out of Sherlock's throat and he thrusts into John's fist in reflex.

It's beyond arousing to see him lose control.

"Fuck," John breathes and licks Sherlock's earlobe, sucks it into his mouth and bites down on it before releasing it again. "You feel  _so_  good…"

Sherlock raises his head and looks at him, his face flushed, and it's such a stunning sight that John simply  _has_  to touch. He growls lowly and cups his jaw with his free hand, runs his thumb, almost roughly, along his cheekbone, then along his lips. Sherlock's face is a piece of art, and he needs him so much that he's scared he'll break him with the sheer force of his desire.

"I want you," he tells him, and what he actually means is  _I want to make love to you, want to eat you,_ consume _you, crawl into you, fuck you,_ God _, I want to fuck you_ so _badly, and then I want you to do it to me, to take me, make me yours, come inside me, make us_ one _, never to part again_.

He can't say all that out loud, because it's insane and he's out of his mind with what surely is, simply has to be,  _love_ , but it's hard to hide it all, and he hopes and at the same time fears that Sherlock will deduce at least some of it when he looks into his eyes.

" _God_ \--- I want you  _so_  much," he repeats to ease the pressure behind his ribs.

Sherlock swallows audibly and goes tense in his arms, and John, already tuned in to his body language, notices right away. Sober again in an instant, he lets go of his cheek and puts his hand on his arm instead.

"Hey," he says. "Are you okay?" 

Sherlock shakes his head, but doesn't answer. John's heart rate picks up – has he changed his mind? Has he just decided that he doesn't want this, can't do this after all?

 _Oh God,_ no _. Please._

"What's wrong?" he asks him. "Do you want to stop? It's okay, Sherlock. Really. It would be okay."

He'd hate it, but of course it would be okay. He'd never want him to do things he doesn't enjoy.

Sherlock shakes his head again, and now John is at a loss. What is this about? What does Sherlock need? He hardly notices that his own erection is flagging, but he sees that Sherlock is losing his, and it makes him feel hollow inside. It's selfish to think like that, he knows, but he's already worried how he'd cope if Sherlock withdrew from him, now that he's had a taste. Nothing else will ever be good enough after this.

"Tell me," he adds softly, ignoring the cold wave of nausea washing over him. "You can tell me, Sherlock."

Sherlock fidgets with a corner of the duvet for a moment, and John can't believe his eyes. He's never seen him this nervous before. That he should be the reason for this premiere doesn't feel good at all, but he doesn't want to put too much pressure on him, so he just waits. Behind Sherlock's eyes, John can see him fight himself, and it's scary, but mesmerising.

"It's--- hard for me to interpret things sometimes," Sherlock suddenly blurts out, speaking fast, as if he wanted to get it over with. "Things like looks, or expressions. I don't always know what's expected of me, or what would be appropriate. Earlier, I--- I wasn't even sure whether you  _wanted_  me to kiss you, John! If my deduction had been wrong, I could have destroyed the only friendship---"

He breaks off and sighs, sounding upset with himself, his brow furrowed in frustration. His whole demeanour is radiating stress, unease, even a slight hint of panic. John wants it to stop, wants to make this easier for him, but isn't sure how to proceed. He nods and, following a spontaneous impulse, takes Sherlock's restless hand in his, entwining their fingers, wordlessly encouraging him to elaborate.

Sherlock looks at their joined hands for a moment, then up at John's face again. His gaze has softened ever so slightly.

"It makes interaction difficult at times," he says, and John is sure it takes him a lot of effort to admit to being helpless and out of his depths.

"I know," he answers.

Sherlock bites his lip and exhales through his nose, as if bracing himself for his next words.

"Past lovers informed me that--- that the strain this inability of mine puts on a relationship is too much to deal with. That it--- isn't worth it."

There are a million thoughts running through John's mind – he's furious with whoever it was that made Sherlock sad, made him feel inadequate and alone, and he's a little upset with Sherlock, too, for allowing people to do that to him, but he's also resolved not to be one of them and show Sherlock that the things he obviously wants to experience are not out of his reach. Far from it.

"How many lovers?" he asks.

Sherlock doesn't seem put out by the question, and John realises that his sometimes downright brutal honesty does have its good sides – he doesn't get offended when you're being just as honest with him in return.

"Two," he says.

_Two._

Two tries at relationships, at safety, and how old is Sherlock again? Somewhere in his late twenties? Early thirties? (John makes a mental note to find out.) It's a shame.

"Well, you picked two bloody idiots, then," he tells him with a smirk.

Sherlock's lips twitch as if he wanted to smile.  _That's a start_ , John thinks. He leans forwards and presses a soft, brief kiss against the corner of Sherlock's mouth, upon which Sherlock hums lowly and tilts his head into the touch.

"It's okay with me, Sherlock. I--- It's always complicated, isn't it? I'm not easy to live with either when I'm in one of my moods, right? But that's just something you put up with when you commit to someone. If I want something, I can tell you. If you don't understand something, you can ask me. That's how it's supposed to work."

"John. You don't know what you're in for."

John smiles and shrugs, thinking about how much he wants to kiss that doubtful pout away and whether he'd find favour with Sherlock if he tried.

"That's true. But I want to find out."

Sherlock squeezes his hand in his.

"I'm scared," he whispers. "I've never been this scared before, John."

John chuckles, hoping the emotions he's experiencing right now are shining through. Sherlock trusts him, and he's determined not to disappoint him. He is a treasure, the most important thing in the universe. He'll cherish him forever.

"God, me too," he says, because it's true.

If he lost him, he'd die.

Sherlock's gaze turns desperate.

"How, then, do you cope? How can you be so enthusiastic about this?" he asks. "How, John?"

John caresses the soft bit of flesh between Sherlock's thumb and index finger, smoothing out the delicate skin there with his fingertip, then runs the pad of his thumb across his knuckles.

"You never know what the future might bring, Sherlock," he says. "Not with these things, you don't. The trick is not to overthink it all."

Sherlock looks resigned at that.

"All I ever do is think," he murmurs, and he looks so small and crestfallen that John wants to throw himself at him and hug him, shower him with love, show him that he's perfect just the way he is.

That might be a bit much at this point, so he swallows it down.

Instead, he says: "I know. You're the brain. Let me be the guts."

The look of confusion that gets him is better than the hopeless one from before, so John congratulates himself.

"The guts? I thought it was supposed to happen in the heart."

Will a little joke do the trick?

"That's because it sounds better in poetry."

It wasn't even  _that_  funny, but Sherlock laughs. It's a deep, full-belly laugh, and it's a sound so startlingly beautiful that it makes John sad to know that he doesn't utter it often enough. He kisses him again, this time full-on on the lips.

"Don't you feel it here?" he mumbles against him and pulls his hand out of Sherlock's grasp to slip it between their bodies and caress the flat plane of Sherlock's stomach. His little finger catches in his navel, then lightly brushes the trail of curls starting just below it. "Deep inside?"

Sherlock shudders. Then he nods and opens his mouth to nip at John's bottom lip, takes it between his own to coax his mouth open with gentle pressure, his tongue sliding out to dip against John's.

"Yes, Sherlock," John whispers into the kiss, because it feels right to say it now. "You can do what you want to me. Anything you want. So… don't hold back. Don't worry about doing something wrong. If I don't like it, I'll let you know." He nips Sherlock's tongue with his front teeth. "But, you know… I _will_ like it," he adds playfully, and Sherlock grins against his lips.

Maybe one day, he can tell Sherlock that past lovers told  _him_  to please,  _please_  shut up during sex once in a while, to stick to his usual habit of only talking when it's absolutely necessary and skipping the pleasantries. He's sure Sherlock would find that amusing.

He loves to worship a partner with words, and Sherlock, who even manages to awaken that urge in him when he's fully dressed and bending over a bloody corpse, has done so ever since that very first day, is worship-worthy in more ways than anyone he's ever met before. And he apparently needs the confirmation and encouragement, so they complement each other perfectly.

"I can't lose you, John," Sherlock says, barely audibly, and nibbles along the corners of John's lips before licking into his mouth again. "I can't."

For the time being, that's as good as a declaration of love, and John reads it as one.

"You won't," he breathes back. "Whatever happens, you won't."

He knows that Sherlock is well aware that he can't promise that, but he  _means_  it right now, and that's really the best he can do. Sherlock doesn't enlarge on the topic, which, in turn, is good enough for John.

They continue to kiss, and the longer it lasts, the more Sherlock relaxes into it, pulling John on top of himself and fitting himself against his body without leaving an inch of space between them. John is surprised at how good a kisser he is, given that he hasn't had a lot of practice, but then again, this is  _Sherlock_ , and it's always all or nothing with him, isn't it? He asks himself whether that will hold true for other things as well, things that are bound to follow this kiss, but reins himself in before he can get carried away by his fantasies. This is real, and it's going to be perfect, whatever they end up doing.

He breaks the kiss to catch his breath.

"Hey… Do you want me to tell you what I've been thinking about?" he asks, following a spontaneous idea that has just struck his mind. "Would that help?"

Sherlock nods, his hand stroking up and down John's spine, teasingly skimming the very top of his buttocks now and then. John leans into him and speaks right into his ear, making sure to brush the tender skin there with his lips in the process.

"I really, really want to go down on you," he whispers. "I love your cock… I want to take it into my mouth and taste it. I know it'll taste  _wonderful_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock moans under his breath and John pulls back to look at him.

"Too much?" he asks, still whispering.

Sherlock shakes his head with vehemence.

"No," he mouths.

He's breathing fast, and John is confident that this is going to work.

"Can I taste your beautiful cock, Sherlock?" he asks huskily, because he can't resist pushing him a bit.

Sherlock sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and exhales through his nose, then grips whole handfuls of the sheet he's lying on and holds on to it, white-knuckled. He nods again.

John smirks and bends down for another kiss.

It's going to work just fine.  

\---

Thirty minutes later, John has verified his theory (Sherlock's cock  _does_  taste wonderful) and also tested it in various other places (he tastes just as good everywhere else), and Sherlock has returned the favour, surprising John by making use of the "Anything goes" rule right away (" _Sherlock!_  You can't---  _oh!_  Not down  _there_ \--- I'm---  _oh_ God--- sweaty--- I mean--- not---  _clean!_ " – "Don't you like it?" – "Of course I do, but---" – "Mmhhh… Shut up, John." – "O---okay--- oh, fuck, _God!_ "). John has never done anything like this before, but he's happy to find that Sherlock's signature trait of always throwing himself head-over-heels into everything he wants to do and then giving his all to achieve perfection also comes into play in the bedroom. He himself might be the more experienced one, but Sherlock is nothing if not adventurous.

It's their first time, and occasionally he feels clumsy, but it's still the best thing he's ever done.

Now they're face to face again, kissing like there's no tomorrow, and John doesn't know whether he'd like to just stay like this forever or rather move on to something more intense – Sherlock's mouth is like a drug and he can't seem to stop, no matter how much the rest of his body is shouting at him to hurry up and get on with it. He's breathing Sherlock's air, drinking in his low groans, and there's nothing else he needs.

Sherlock eventually saves him from having to make a decision by slowly ending the kiss and then pressing his forehead against John's, panting, his lips glistening with saliva, and it's so enticing that John dips his tongue against his full, swollen bottom lip, licks a sloppy stripe along its outer edge, desperate to re-establish contact now that their mouths are not touching anymore.

Sherlock smiles, showing his teeth, and allows it, even meets John's tongue with his own for a short, delicious moment, before drawing away entirely and rolling onto his back to gaze at John from under half-closed lids. It's the mother of all  _come hither_  looks, and John's cock gives a small twitch.

"I'm ridiculously infatuated with you, John," Sherlock says and runs his knuckles along John's cheek, and all of a sudden John's heart feels too big for his chest.

"Ditto," he breathes, keeping his volume down, not trusting his voice to obey him just yet.

Sherlock looks at him, calmly and steadily, and lets his thighs fall open in a very plain gesture of invitation. Then he takes John's hand and pushes it between his legs, down,  _down_ , and John's vision flickers out of focus for a second. Sherlock's opening is soft and damp against his fingers; he can feel tender, puckered skin hiding a tight ring of muscle, and God, if this isn't the most sensual way Sherlock could have chosen to tell him that it's okay, that he can take what he wants,  _do_  what he wants…  _God_.

"Please…" Sherlock says. "Touch me."

John reaches behind himself, blindly, not wanting to break eye contact now, and fumbles for his bedside drawer.  _Lube_ , he thinks.  _Where's the lube?_

He hasn't done this in such a long time.

He finds what he's looking for and finally has to let go of Sherlock to open the bottle and slick up his fingers, and as soon as he has moved between Sherlock's legs and put one of them on his left shoulder to give him better access to the place he needs to reach, it somehow becomes easier. The way Sherlock keeps looking at him is another level of sex in itself, and he administers a gentle bite to his calf, soothes the spot with a kiss afterwards, and then slips his fingers between his cheeks to circle his entrance.

" _Oh_ ," Sherlock whispers. "Cold."

"Sorry," John apologises.

"No…  _Good_ ," Sherlock clarifies. "More."

Most days, John can hardly follow Sherlock's rapid-fire monologues once he gets going, and even normal conversations can lean towards the exhausting, what with his posh vocabulary and all, but now it's monosyllabic sentences, apparently, and John  _loves_  it.

"Two," Sherlock adds, his voice oddly deep. "Please.  _Now._ "   

John swallows hard and then pushes in, hesitantly at first, because two fingers seems like too much, too fast, but Sherlock's body begs to differ and pulls him in eagerly, convulsing around the intrusion and opening up more and more the deeper he goes, and then he's inside,  _all the way_  inside, and it's hotter and tighter and more  _alive_  than John remembers it, but those other ones were not Sherlock, so it probably wasn't the same at all.

Sherlock has gone very quiet, his heavy breathing the only thing breaking the silence around them. John can feel every breath he takes from the inside, and he's never wanted to tell somebody  _I love you_  this much in all his life, but he doesn't dare, not yet, not this early.

"You're exquisite," he says instead.

He turns his hand and crooks his fingers, which causes Sherlock to shudder and whine lowly, his leg shaking against John's chest and shoulder so violently that he has to hold onto it to steady Sherlock and himself, and then he finds the spot he's looking for and rubs his fingertips against it in one slow circle, then two, and that's when Sherlock's eyes slide shut and he bares his throat and groans and moves his hips into the sensation, looking for more of it. It's an involuntary, primal reaction, and John watches in amazement and does it again.

And again.    

"John, oh--- oh, oh,  _John!_ "

After the fourth, fifth, sixth time, Sherlock's whole frame is vibrating, and it's the most wonderful sight. He is falling apart under John's hands. John wants to feel it, all of it, so he lets go of his leg and changes his position to lie down next to him, which causes his fingers to slip free of Sherlock's body by accident.

" _Nnhhh_ … don't  _leave_  me…" Sherlock slurs and opens his eyes to find John's face and blink at him deliriously, his mouth open and gasping for air, his voice catching in the back of his throat as he speaks.

His choice of words is endearing and insanely arousing at the same time, and John growls and grinds his own hardness against Sherlock's hip to take the edge off his need.

"No, beautiful," he assures him breathlessly. "I've got you… Lift your leg."

He hoists Sherlock's thigh up and re-enters him, finding him soft, wet, and pliant to his touch, and Sherlock throws back his head, his eyes snapping shut in abandon again.

" _Hhhnnnggg_ …" he grunts.

"Mmhhh,  _yes_ … You're stunning…" John murmurs, and from this angle it's more difficult to find Sherlock's prostate, but he manages, and when he does, he teases it with gentle, barely-there nudges and caresses until Sherlock sobs and begins to shiver once more.

John shuffles down the mattress until he can rub his face against Sherlock's shoulder, which allows him to push his erection against the cleft of his arse and the back of his own hand. He tongue-kisses the sweaty skin of Sherlock's twitching biceps and ruts against his own slippery knuckles, crazy with desire, and Sherlock, apparently approving of the added stimulation the head of John's cock provides whenever it slips between his buttocks, huffs out a guttural moan and rocks his hips, easing John's hand into a quick, urgent rhythm of in and out.

"Yes," he gasps. " _Yes!_ "

"Touch yourself, baby," John groans. "I---  _can't_ \---"

He doesn't have enough hands. His left arm is trapped between Sherlock's upper back and the mattress, his hand clutching the back of his neck, and his right hand is busy thrusting into his wet, welcoming warmth, faster and faster, and he wants all of it, all at once, Sherlock's mouth against his, his pulsing length in his hand, too, and his tight passage throbbing around his fingers, but it's not possible, at least not while lying here with him like this, so he settles for the next best thing.

Sherlock's graceful, slender fingers look obscenely erotic when he wraps them around himself and pulls a few times, then cups his bollocks to roll them in his palm. John watches with one eye, fighting to keep it open and not give in to the urge to just give himself over to pleasure and let go. He wants to see it all, this first time, and remember it for the rest of his life.

"Oh God---" he moans when Sherlock teases himself with the pad of his thumb and clenches down on his fingers involuntarily as he does so. His imagination is running wild, sending a phantom sensation of slick,  _tight_  walls squeezing him right into his cock, and he has to bite his tongue not to spend himself right then and there.

"Oh, oh,  _oh_ ," Sherlock chants lowly and tightens his grip around himself, a shuddering wave running through him that John can feel deep down in his bones.

Gulping for air, he looks up to see his face, and Sherlock cranes his head to meet his eyes, his teeth clenched, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, his eyes blazing.

"John," he begs desperately. " _Please!_ "

John pushes in deep, presses his fingers against Sherlock's prostate and just holds them there, and speeds up the rhythm in which he moves his hips, faster,  _faster_ , his centre turning into hot liquid, bubbling,  _boiling_ , and Sherlock keeps looking at him and whimpers, then opens his mouth in a silent scream, his eyes wide open. At the edge of his field of vision, John sees him stroke himself with something close to desperation, so fast that his hand is a mere blur, and he can  _hear_  him, too, wet, slapping noises nothing short of pornographic, and he's  _so_  tempted to look, to see details, but it turns out he can't tear his gaze away from that face, from that gorgeous look of rapture on the usually calm and collected features.  _He_  is the reason Sherlock is looking like that right now, and it drives John insane with pride.

He stares and listens to him pleasuring himself and thrusts until his abdominal muscles start to spasm, and then he  _comes_ , so hard and suddenly that he's a little surprised by the intensity of it all. He shouts out a garbled grunt and spills his release against his own hand and Sherlock's arse in three forceful pulses that shake him to his very core. Caught up in a swirl of white light, he bites down on Sherlock's arm, none too gently, and allows his lids to slide shut to better enjoy what's happening inside of him.

" _Haahhh_ ," Sherlock wheezes, and John feels his thighs go tense when he pushes his heels into the mattress and arches his back and starts to buck in time with the shocks of pleasure rocking through him, and John just goes with it and moves with him and clings on for dear life, not sure anymore where he begins and Sherlock ends.

Sherlock's orgasm seems to announce itself forever, but then, finally, it happens. John can  _hear_  him ejaculate, can hear the first spurt, the low  _splash_  of semen meeting skin amidst Sherlock's deep, throaty moans, and it's the most sensual combination of sounds he's ever been lucky enough to witness. And then a small streak of wetness hits him in the cheek and runs down to the corner of his mouth, burning like lava on his over-sensitive skin, and his tongue sneaks out to catch it, taste it, memorise Sherlock's essence, bitter and salty and perfect,  _perfect_. Sherlock is crying out his name, repeats it like a mantra, making sounds John has never heard before, his voice raw and hoarse, and eventually grips John's wrist to hold on tight, and that's when John realises that he should probably take his hand away now if he ever wants to do this again.

He opens his eyes and glances up. Sherlock looks wrecked and lovely and like a completely new person.

"Sorry," John rasps, still breathing hard, and pulls his fingers out of his body, slowly and gently, taking care to not irritate him any further. "Fuck. I'm  _sorry_ , love… That was--- too much."

Sherlock moans, long and loud, and shivers through an aftershock, then pries his eyes open, obviously with difficulty, to return John's gaze.

"You're trying to---  _kill_  me," he pants. " _John._ "

The tears in his voice clash with the blissful, radiant smile on his face, and John laughs. It sounds mildly hysterical even to his own ears.

"Sorry," he repeats.

He props himself up on one elbow and moves upwards until their faces are level again, grabbing his discarded jumper on the way and using it to wipe his fingers with it before dropping it to the floor.

"Let me get a wet flannel to clean you up, okay?" he says and kisses Sherlock's shoulder. "We've made a right mess of your---" He pauses, surveying the combined evidence of their passion, which is covering Sherlock's front and thighs and, he's sure, the largest part of his bottom as well. "Well, of your everything, really," he finishes, feeling a new fit of laughter pull at the back of his throat.

Sherlock sighs.

"Alright," he answers and settles back against his pillow, closing his eyes. "Hurry, please."

John gets up. His legs feel like they don't belong to him.

"I won't be a minute. You must be so uncomfortable."

Sherlock rumbles deep down in his chest. Without opening his lids, he murmurs: "No. I want to hold you."

John  _runs_.

When he gets back with the flannel and wipes Sherlock clean, the other man jerks at every touch, so hyper-stimulated that even the most gentle caress sends him shivering, and John, despite feeling a bit sorry for him, marvels at the spectacle.

"You're fucking amazing, Sherlock," he tells him. "God, you're _so_ sensitive… I've never seen anything this sexy before –  _never_  in all my life… Does that happen every time you come?"

Sherlock huffs out a half-exasperated, half-flattered chuckle.

"Most of the time, yes… Sometimes--- _oh_ \--- very seldom, I should say… I manage to climax multiple times…"

John gapes at him, his hand stopping its movement in mid-wipe.

"Multiple times, as in… more than twice in a row?"

Sherlock nods.

John bites the inside of his cheek and tries to breathe evenly.

"We'll try that next time," he murmurs. "And those two blokes you spoke of earlier really _were_ idiots."

Sherlock grins tiredly. He doesn't complain when John takes his time cleaning him up, but just stretches himself like a lazy cat and lets it happen, his stomach rippling whenever one of those sweet little sparks of pleasure-pain shoots through him.

They end up in a knot of limbs afterwards, still naked, and John thinks that being here like this with Sherlock is probably even better than the sex itself. Sherlock is a warm and comforting presence and, despite having been completely drenched in sweat only recently, still smells fantastic, like wood and spices and pure skin, and John wonders how the hell he managed to get him into his bed and what it would take to convince him to never, ever leave it again.

They do not talk, but it's an easy, pleasant silence, not unlike the ones they used to share regularly in the time before  _this_ , which by now feels like a million years ago.

He's sure Sherlock is falling asleep and is just about to drift off as well when suddenly his friend's deep, rich voice, slightly fuzzy due to his obvious exhaustion, rings through the quiet room again. 

"Is it always like this, John?"

John strokes up and down his arm, which is draped across his middle in a careless sprawl, and enjoys the sensation of sparse body hair and smooth skin rubbing against his palm.

"Hmm… Is what always like this?" he asks.

Sherlock pushes his nose into the crook of John's neck, making him shiver. His long legs entwine themselves even more intricately with John's.

"Falling in love."

It comes out muffled.

John looks at Sherlock lying there in his arms, spread out halfway across his body, his long, pale back glinting in the orange light of his bedside lamp and his naked arse, lamentably,  _just_  out of reach, and sighs deeply.

"I have no idea," he says.

And it's true. He's never felt this way before either.

Sherlock hums and looks up, propping his chin against John's chest. His irises look darker than usual because his pupils are dilated to compensate for the weak lighting, but their unique colour is still visible. John reaches out for him, buries his hands in his tousled hair, feels his thick curls wind around his fingers.

"You're gorgeous," he mutters under his breath. "I love that I'm allowed to see you like this. Your eyes… I've never seen eyes like yours before. Sea glass eyes."

Sherlock half-smiles at him and crinkles his nose the way he does when he's about to lecture someone on something, and John has been that someone so often already that he can easily identify the sign.

"Actually," Sherlock says, and John wants to giggle, because a lecture in the nude is not nearly as annoying as a normal one, "what I think you mean is 'beach glass'. Sea glass is physically and chemically weathered glass that is usually found on beaches along bodies of salt water. These weathering processes produce natural frosted glass. Beach glass comes from fresh water and in most cases has a different pH balance and a less frosted appearance. The last time I checked, my eyes did _not_ appear frosted, John – although you might want to look at them again when I'm in my sixties. My family's medical history shows a predisposition towards cataracts."  

_"…when I'm in my sixties."_

John lightly pulls at the strands of hair he's holding, and Sherlock must be seeing something in _his_ eyes now, because he closes his mouth and just stares at him with an expression of intent curiosity written all over his face.

"You sound like fucking Wikipedia," John says. And: "I want to look at your eyes every day from now on, if that's okay with you." And then: "I'm pretty sure I love you."

_Oh God._

Sherlock has stopped blinking. Has stopped _breathing_ , even. It can't last more than ten, fifteen seconds, but to John it feels like a lifetime.

He hopes he hasn't overstepped a line.

Finally, Sherlock shakes himself out of his stupor. He takes a deep, silent breath, his chest heaving against John's. Then he moves his head and presses a long kiss against his sternum, a tender, chaste kiss that is still filled with so much honest meaning that it makes John feel lightheaded for a moment.

"I'm pretty sure too," Sherlock mumbles into his skin. "John."

There it is again, his name, falling like a prayer from those honey lips, and John lets his hands wander down to the nape of Sherlock's neck and then to his back, wrapping his arms around him as tightly as possible.

He's never been this happy before.

When Sherlock utters something that can only be described as a sleepy purr of contentment and puts his head back on his shoulder to close his eyes and doze, John grins at the ceiling.

He doesn't know what this will become, doesn't know if they'll make it in the end – but he's looking forward to more "data", more Sherlock, more of  _this_. It feels better than anything else ever has, and he'll do his best to keep it for as long as possible.

He'll let Sherlock, whose body is growing heavier against his side now, rest for a while, and then, later, they can maybe, if Sherlock wants to, go for another round of experimenting.

Just to make sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock /is/ indeed Wikipedia in this case:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sea_glass


End file.
